That is What it Is Life is That
by ilurandir
Summary: "That is what it is, life... is that." - that's how it always was, how it always worked for Tom and Barry.


Barry was laughing. It was something that was increasingly rare these days, and Tom wasn't sure why that was. Robbie said she wasn't worried about it, but sometimes Tom would catch her watching his brother… she said it was normal, but he wasn't so sure.

After all, if it was just something that was supposed to happen, then how come he didn't feel it? They'd always grown at the same time. They'd always been the same. The same awkward limbs, the same growth spurts, the same changing in their voices. Tom still thought Barry sounded older. Sometimes it confused him, because he'd always been the protective one… Barry was always the one that needed protection.

But that didn't make sense either… Barry was always the one that clenched his jaw and fought the tears back as hard as he could when they fell on the rocks going down to the beach. That used to happen all the time, before they'd learned how to better tell which rocks were loose and which ones weren't. Tom was the one that would be wiping the tears away, along with the blood on his knees, but they had been younger then…

Barry needed protection from different things. Things Tom couldn't see, and had only just begun to really understand, with a frightening realisation that it wasn't normal. It had always been there. Both brothers had established that fact, but it had just gotten worse.

Sometimes Barry woke up screaming.

Or he used to… those dreams stopped just last year, and it didn't look like they were going to return. Or maybe they just didn't frighten Barry anymore. Tom didn't want to tell him that his own dreams, normal dreams, were beginning to be interrupted by scenes of things he didn't quite understand. Dying birds, the dryness of sand in his throat, and a voice…

Tom grabbed his brother's shoulders as Barry's hands came up to defend himself, but someone misjudged the distance and the heel of Barry's hand collided with Tom's cheek and they tumbled to the ground. It was hard to do anything that required strength when they were both laughing so hard. Tom didn't want it to end because his brother never laughed anymore, and his smiles weren't as happy or as long-lived as they used to be.

Tom caught his breath long enough to pin Barry to the sand, shoving both his hands into his tangled, curly hair, matted with sand and seawater from their swim that morning. Barry yelped in pain as Tom felt his fingers snag slightly. He wound his fingers in it, keeping his head down, one of Barry's arms pinned lightly underneath his knee.

He coughed as Barry yanked on the back of his shirt. "You're choking me!" Tom managed. He could feel Barry's legs pressing against his sides, bare feet sliding in the sand as he tried to shove him off that way. He wasn't letting go of Tom's collar so Tom did the only thing he could do when he was permanently attached so close to his attacker like this, when his hands were entwined in that wild hair that was never quite fee from snags or sand.

He ducked his head and bit him, just under the ear, his teeth running almost smoothly over the bone of his jaw. Barry cried out, released Tom's collar and smacked his hand into the side of Tom's head. Tom relented, falling to his side and pulling his brother with him, still laughing. Barry wasn't laughing anymore, but Tom could feel it still, in his breath, the way it was uneven and shaky like crying. He could see the happiness in Barry's eyes though. He caught his breath as Barry ran his fingers over the wound. "I'm bleeding!" he cried in mock outrage, shoving Tom again. Tom grabbed his shoulders and pinned him down, so that he could see.

"You're not," Tom laughed. There was a red mark, but no more blood save the bits of Barry's fingertips.

"'Cause it's stopped now, you prat," Barry sulked. "It was..."

Tom didn't like how fast the play had gone out of him. It caught hold of something in his gut and pulled, hard. It always made him feel like he did when he knew he'd done something wrong.

He swallowed, grinned and said, "I'll make it bleed," before moving to bite him again. He felt the shudder of Barry's chest against his, the half panicked laugh that escaped him.

"OkayokaynoTomstop!" he said in one breath, hands pushing at his brother's chest, pulling at his hair, and Tom relented, pulling back, because Barry was laughing again.

They were almost nose to nose, eyes fixed on each other's as their breath evened out and they were just listening to the noise of the sea.

It was getting dark, but Tom didn't want to go in. He shifted, resting his head on Barry's shoulder, and felt Barry's quick jerk of the head which meant that Tom had accidentally brushed the fresh marks just below his ear. Barry's head was back, eyes on the stars, but Tom felt his hand fall just below his shoulders, the barely there stroke of his thumb through Tom's shirt before everything but the ocean went still.

After a while, Tom began to notice their proximity… he was still over Barry, his body flush against his brother's. The way Barry's heart beat near Tom's ear, a steady rhythm, not quite as steady as his own, could feel the rise and fall of his chest and belly beneath him, and his own against his brother's. His own heart. His own breath. It wasn't often he noticed these things, because they were so common. He just took them for granted, the way their bodies worked in sync, but not.

He didn't understand the theory that some men – those doctors and scientists – had on Siamese twins. Conjoined twins. Omphalopagus, that foreign-sounding word that somehow meant what they were. That somehow defined them, boxed them, put them into a category.

He liked reading about Chang and Eng, and he remembered the first time he'd heard about them – Robbie had brought books home from the library on the mainland again. He had been startled to see the reaction that they got, those men. From the writers of the book, treating them like… they were different. Somehow it had never occurred to Tom before then that he and Barry _were_ different from other people. He'd never really taken it into consideration… he just assumed there were plenty of other people like him and Barry walking around outside of the Head.

He remembered asking Rob to find some more books for him, and so she did. Barry had never been interested… he liked the fact that there were other ones, joined just like them, but he didn't pour over the books like Tom did. He didn't memorise the names of the different conjoinments, some of which Tom didn't even understand how they worked. Ischopagus, parapagus, thoracopagus…

He remembered the twisting feeling in his gut when he realised that conjoined twins sometimes weren't considered as two individuals… but instead, one person. He didn't understand how that could pass, medically, when his and Barry's hearts beat at different times, and their breathing didn't always come together. How could he be reading a book while Barry talked to their dad, if they were one person?

Barry had always liked looking at the pictures of the skeletons. Twins with four legs, two heads on a singular, broad-shouldered body. He was interested in the pictures of the insides of these separated twins – always, Tom noted, after they were dead.

There were the questions. Could they be separated? Sometimes Tom thought about it, and he always felt guilty for doing so… but what would it be like to get up when he wanted to, and go out along the beach in the rain, without Barry… not have Barry whining that he wanted to stay indoors, be able to go to the mainland without getting stared at. Barry used to say that he wanted it, but now when Tom brought it up, Barry got touchy and moody and so Tom just stopped talking about it.

But right now, lying here with Barry, in the sand, still warm on the surface from the heat of the day, but cool as soon as you pushed your fingers down into it… he _didn't_ want to be separated from Barry, because they were special weren't they? They always had each other to depend on… and besides it was nice having Barry's body against his like this. Warm and comforting.

They started talking – not about anything really. Feeling the vibration of each other's voices in their chests, the soft breaths. They talked about Robbie and Bert and how often they slipped off together, about the gull with the broken wing that now had the run of their house, the tourists that came from the mainland to see the birds… and sometimes word on the twins would slip out. Barry had once, in a tantrum, been talking about them, saying "this isn't a fucking carnival, and why are they allowed to come and stare at us like that?" His father made him wash his mouth out with soap, and Barry sulked for the rest of the day. Tom learned the easy way never said that word.

They liked to spy on them, the tourists. Earlier that summer there had been two girls – not twins, but sisters that had really begun the talking about new things. The short summer nights where their room was stuffy and too hot, even with the windows open, when they discovered what they could do with their hands, touching themselves like that. They didn't really talk about it. Never really touched each other.

Sometimes the sounds Barry made, those quickly cut off breaths, and the quiet moans that shuddered from his chest would turn Tom on enough – just knowing that Barry was doing that, it made him… want to, made him hard.

"Girls like kissing," Barry said, pulling a face, and Tom twisted a little to look at him, resting his chin on his hand, on Barry's chest, feeling his heart beat somewhere underneath his palm.

"How d'you know?" he asked, sceptically.

"Well you've seen Rob and Bert at it," Barry said. "All tongues and—ugh."

Tom grinned. Robbie didn't know that they spied on her.

"Don't even see how that's good, really," Barry said.

Tom bit his lower lip. "Well if girls like it, then you have to know it…"

"You think we're ever going to get a girl?" Barry asked. Tom hated when he did that. Played on the fact that they were different. Brought it up and made it obvious.

"Yeah, we will…" Tom said, frowning. He wasn't sure. "…Maybe all girls don't like kissing," he put in after a minute. "Maybe s'just Rob?"

"They're all th'same," Barry said knowledgably, glancing at him, then pushing himself into a sitting position so that Tom had to move.

"How d'you know?" he asked again. Barry shrugged, playing with a shell, scooping sand with it and tossing it away.

"They're always doing it in the fairy stories Rob used to read."

Tom stared at Barry's fingers, the dirt under his nails, as he dug the hole deeper. Sand fleas were starting to come out, hitting their bare feet and ankles, and their wrists which were too long for their sleeves. They almost never got new clothes 'til Christmas.

"… what if—what if there's a girl that likes us, and we're bad at it."

"Bad at what?" Barry asked, clearly bored with the subject.

"Like… kissing and that," Tom mumbled, reddening slightly.

Barry glanced at him, then went back to his digging. "Who cares anyway? S'gross."

Tom stared at the sand, upset. He wanted a girl to like them… like _him_… what if he _was _bad at it? How did he know if it was good?

"Well if you're so worried about how bad you're going to be, we can practise."

"Never said I was!" Tom shot at him… "And no. I don't want to kiss you."

"Fine." Barry said, digging again. "No one's ever gonna know."

Tom brushed sand carefully off of his palm. "Well… well how will you know if it's good?"

"Well because if you're disgusting at it, it's bad."

"But how will _you_ know? You've never done it. You're no better than I am."

"You've got it or you don't." Barry said knowledgably, and Tom hated him.

"Whatever, you don't know."

"I'll kiss you then. You can tell me if it's right or not."

Tom, unnerved by Barry's sureness, wondering if – somewhere along the way- he'd missed something crucial to understanding kissing and girls, didn't retort with another 'but how will I know?', he just held Barry's eyes and nodded, swallowing.

Barry didn't move – they sat there, staring at each other. "You have to close your eyes first," Barry said.

Tom sighed angrily, not closing his eyes. Barry twitched a little, as though to look away, but then thinking better of it just said "Fine, look stupid," he closed the few inches between them and kissed him on the mouth, lips closed. Tom didn't't move and Barry pulled away.

"Bloody hell, you're doing it all wrong."

"How do you know you aren't?"

"Well you have to open your mouth like-"

"But that's gross, you said it-"

"Well it's the only right way," Barry said, and Tom caught a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "Fine," he told him. "Do it again."

"You do it."

Tom fidgeted. "What are you so scared of?" Barry taunted, grinning.

Tom pulled a face and kissed him, opening his mouth, lips moving clumsily over Barry's who pulled back a little, parted his own lips, just a little. Tom could feel his uncertainty, and the way his heart sped up. They kept going – the movements getting more and more awkward – trying to find some… correctness. Some right way, and Tom realised Barry didn't know what he was talking about at all, and he felt better. Finally his brother pulled away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Don't _spit_ on me. You're getting it everywhere."

Tom flushed. "You liar, you said you knew."

"I do, you're just so terrible."

"Don't."

"Yes I do."

They both lapsed into silence.

"…You…" Barry began, then stopped.

"What?" Tom asked quietly, not looking at him.

"You have to use your tongue."

Tom pursed his lips, furrowing his brow. "Let's try once more."

Barry faced him fully, tossing away his shell. Again, they awkwardly stared at each other. Barry licked his lips, looking down, then awkwardly placed his hand on Tom's jaw line. Tom tried to stop himself, but the smile came anyway. It felt silly, somehow, and he started laughing. Barry smacked him upside the head, also laughing a little, but when Tom calmed down enough to look at him again he saw there was something – confusion? Embarrassment in Barry's eyes and the set of his mouth that struck Tom as strange.

"Ready?" Barry asked.

Tom grinned again, laughing a little, and again Barry followed his example, but Tom realised it sounded forced.

"Count of three, count of three," he was saying and Tom sat up straighter, closed his eyes.

"One, two… _Tom_…" Tom pressed his lips together and got rid of the smile forming. "One, two, three…" they both took a breath, and Barry kissed him again. Tom leaned into it, opening his mouth, wanting so badly to get it right. It was as bad as the first time until Barry's hand came up, fingertips pressing against Tom's chin, separating them just enough. He kissed him again, and this time when Tom opened his lips, more cautiously, Barry slipped his tongue into his mouth, unsure. Tom met it with his own the second time, and surprisingly, it felt nice.

Barry's hand moved to Tom's face again as they continued just touching tongues. Tom was the one that deepened it. Their teeth bumped and both of them breathed a laugh, but sobered quickly, still kissing. After a moment, Tom pulled away a little, wondering how you knew when you were done, but Barry's mouth chased his and Tom was losing his balance so he just lay back, feeling his brother slide up between his bent knees.

He felt Barry's heart beating faster than his own – faster than normal… and he felt how hard he was, when Barry's hips pressed against his pelvis. Tom jerked away, without meaning to, and Barry tried to kiss him again.

"Wh-wait, I thought I heard—thought I heart Robbie," Tom said, lying – and badly, because he didn't look back towards the house. He wasn't sure why he had panicked.

Barry seemed to realise what had gone wrong and scrambled up, one leg pulled to his chest, pressing against the join as he realised that Tom wasn't—hard… wasn't turned on by that. He furrowed his brow and stared at the ground.

"Barry-" Tom began, wondering why he was so upset suddenly… sometimes it just… he got like that, his body – for no reason. That was what had happened, right? It was normal…

He reached out and touched Barry's hair, but Barry pulled sharply away, puling at the join and making Tom gasp a little, at the sharp tug. "Don't touch me," Barry said.

Tom blinked, surprised. "…What did I do?" he asked after a moment.

Barry looked away, pushing his bangs back like he did when he was embarrassed to the point of anger and glanced down, making sure his situation was as well hidden as possible.

Tom went silent and looked down at the sand, drawing in it. "Let's go in," Barry finally said after a few minutes, when he could stand, and Tom didn't argue.

Barry was quiet the rest of the night, even when they went up to bed. He didn't undress fully like they usually did, leaving his shorts on, but Tom didn't say anything. Barry didn't curl into him like usual either. It was the end of summer, but they still only had the thin summer sheets on their bed, so during the night, it would get cold unless they were close together.

Tom lay on his side, looking at his brother, the join pulling between them. It was getting—like, stretched out, more than when they were little kids, but they still couldn't both lay on their backs. He wondered if they ever would be able to. "Barry," Tom said.

Barry didn't answer him.

"Hey… why're you mad at me?"

"I'm not."

"Why're you-"

"I just don't want to talk to you. Shut up."

Tom stared at him, hurt. What had he done to deserve this. "Hey," he said again, quieter, unsure. "…we're a pair…"

They used to say it when they were little. No older than seven or eight because they thought it was clever. Because a pear was also a fruit. They thought it was funny… he'd forgotten it until just then, and to his relief Barry finally broke his icy silence with an almost scoffing laugh. Tom waited… waited…

And Barry turned into him like Tom knew he would. Because they _were_ a pair… it was how they worked.

_That is what it is. _

_Life… is that._


End file.
